Fuck the Locker Room!

Granted, this took me a few days to mull over, but my hatred grows stronger by the day. I don't mean to be negative because believe me I give credit when credit is due. That being said, I have never had a worse time, nor could imagine having a worse time, at a bar in my life. If you're not familiar with the Locker Room in downtown Utica, consider yourself blessed. This bar boasts on being a wild time, which I guess it is if you have zero standards and are a low-life, wanna be meat head.

Upon entry into the bar, there is a $4 cover. Now, this bar is the size of my basement. I'm not cheap, but you need to understand that there are about 5 bars in downtown Utica and none of then would have the audacity to charge cover for their establishments. They know what they are, they know what they offer. Not cover worthy. However, it was my boy's birthday. God knows why he chose this bar as one of the few on the agenda for the night, but I digress.  I shelled out the cover price and was immediately cornered by a bouncer saying "You have to buy your first drink here, now!" A little forward, but hey that's what I'm here to do after all, so I oblige. I start my tab.

They give you sticks that are the size of drum sticks, but thicker, and everyone continuously bangs on the walls, tables, seats, and people all night long, every night of the week. That's their thing. Again, I feed into the "madness".  After about 3 minutes banging on shit gets really mundane. Time to get shit-faced. I turn to the bar where I wait a solid 15 minutes for a beer, as there are at minimum 30 people standing on the bar stomping their feet and banging away with their steroid ridden drumsticks. I must note that the wait time is partially my fault. You can only get so close to people standing on a bar without having a panic attack knowing that the swap creature directly in front of you will inevitably fart in your agape mouth. I soon figure out this isn't going to last long. I cherish my beer knowing I won't get another one, without considerable effort, for some time.

Finally, a waitress! Thank God. Now I can get a new beer. She, however, was not interested in selling me anything but the 8 shots she had with her. "Buy some shots," she orders. "Well, what do you have?", I ask politely, although losing my patience. "Jager bombs and Cherry bombs!", she exclaims. Now I'm not sure if that was supposed to get a rise out of me but I say, "nah I'll take another Blue Light." "What? Are you a pussy?", she retorts. "No, I'm just not in high school anymore. I don't drink 'bombs'." "I think you're a pussy!", she says. She shoots me a smile, which, I can see the fecal matter all over her teeth because I'll be damned if that wasn't the dirtiest shit-eating grin I've been given in my life.

Time to go. I give the bar another attempt to square up my tab and get one last beer. After another 15 minutes, I'm finally served. "You only had 3 beers and there's a $10 minimum on the tab," the bartender snidely replies. I see what you're doing here, lady. I recount that I've only had one because this place is a fucking joke and that better be the only thing on my tab.  I order a round of Rumple Minze for the bros. At this point whatever gets me out of here fastest will have to do. While waiting for the shots and my card, some type of show starts. Another bartender, obviously coked out of his gord, slams beer bottles on the floor and lights things on fire. This show severely impedes my departure, and overall level of enjoyment.

The aforementioned bartender is straddling a bachelorette, inexplicably there for her final stand before tying the knot. He feeds her a "Blow Job Shot" while trying to penetrate her tits through both of their articles of clothing. I walk out the doors to the crowd screaming, "She SWALLOWED!"

She may have swallowed, but you, "Locker Room Saloon", just suck.

PS. I apologize for the diatribe. I'm doing this for your own good. STAY AWAY!